


The Nice List

by LeafOnTheWind



Series: A Visit From St. Stark [1]
Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Santa Claus, Christmas, Intercrural Sex, Kinkmas, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Not Beta Read, Obsessive Behavior, Oral Sex, POV Tony Stark, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Tony Stark, Somnophilia, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27614045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafOnTheWind/pseuds/LeafOnTheWind
Summary: Tony Stark had been Santa Claus for forty years when he first met Peter.Perhaps ‘met’ is a strong word. He had been Santa for forty years when he firstsawPeter.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: A Visit From St. Stark [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043289
Comments: 22
Kudos: 172
Collections: SSBB Kinkmas 2020





	The Nice List

**Author's Note:**

> Did I say I was going to stop doing one-shots and focus on my WIP? Yes. Did anybody really believe that was true? No, especially with the ~holidays~ coming up!
> 
> For SSBB's 2020 Kinkmas event. My prompts were touch-starved & somnophilia.
> 
> Please enjoy! ❤️

It was never supposed to come to this, Tony thinks with chagrin. He flips up a placard on his countdown.

[ **5** ] Days Left Until Christmas

Five days left until Tony had to make the journey again.

_This was what you wanted, wasn’t it?_

Five days left of being perfectly alone in his workshop, finishing the last pre-Christmas crunch that he goes into every single year.

_To be left alone to work in your shop._

“Just a few more left,” he says into the silence, the bags under his eyes stark against his sunless skin.

_Nobody to bother you._

Five days left until he would see another human again, even if every single one of them will be asleep.

_Right?_

Five days until he would see Peter again.

\--

He had been Santa Claus for forty years when he first met Peter.

Perhaps ‘met’ is a strong word. He had been Santa for forty years when he first _saw_ Peter.

Every year on the night of December 24th, the twenty-first Santa Claus, Tony Stark, leaves his workshop and travels the world, east to west. That one night lasts as long as it needs to for every one to be delivered. Sometimes it’s a few days, though one memorable time with a snowstorm it took him over a week, even with his upgraded suit.

On that night, he delivers gifts he has built for children on the _Nice_ _List_ all across the world. He doesn’t know how the Lists are updated, nor how it knows what to build or where to deliver them, but it does. A present is known all year; an address and a name are added the night of his journey. Most of the time, children are on the _Nice List_ until they’re ten or so. The oldest he’d seen was thirteen.

Until Peter.

\--

The magic of Christmas Night is such that no matter how hard someone tries to stay awake, his arrival brings sleep and calm and _peace_. And yes, okay, he _likes_ helping people, bringing actual fucking goodness to the world, peace among men and all that, sure, whatever, but Tony has been alone for _so long_.

He has his helpers, Dummy and U and Butterfingers, but when was the last time he’d touched someone he hadn’t built with his own hands? When was the last time someone had touched _him_? It’s almost worse that he doesn’t even know the answer anymore. He must have, at some point.

His skin feels too tight, like an ill-fitting suit. He pats Dummy in thanks as he’s handed a nutrient shake.

\--

Peter is fifteen when Tony lets his curiosity get the better of him. Two years beyond any other child he’d seen, and he’s seen an awful lot. And so, for the first time in forty-odd years, he doesn’t leave immediately, single-mindedly focused on finishing the night. He can’t rest until the night is over; just as others cannot stay awake, he can’t sleep. It’s quite the motivation to keep things efficient.

Tony’s curiosity has always been a weakness of his. It’s what led him to engineering, to magic, to the North Pole. It’s what leads him to stay, to wonder at the boy who is growing up in front of his eyes, staying _Nice_ (whatever the hell that means) when no others have.

He’s a cute kid, Tony thinks, reaching out to brush the kid’s curly hair away from his face for a better look. It burns where it touches his hand and Tony recoils, the urge to reach out and run his fingers through that silky softness unbearable.

He turns tail and leaves. There are many more gifts to deliver yet.

\--

Peter is sixteen when Tony returns. The kid is growing still, gangly, the kind of thin that comes from too-fast a growth spurt. He imagines he’d move like a baby gazelle, lanky and awkward, were he awake.

When Tony reaches out this time, it is much more intentional. He starts with a brush of their hands, skin to skin for the first time in so, so long. Both of their hands are freezing in the cold, but Tony traces every line of his palm, interlacing their fingers, feeling almost drunk from this little bit of contact alone.

Eventually, he drops the hand, and it flops right back to the bedspread, the kid still fast asleep. The night is as long as he makes it, and as much as he yearns to stay, it needs to end eventually. He needs his beauty sleep, after all.

\--

Peter is seventeen when Tony realizes he is beautiful. The curtains across his small window are open this year, the teenager splayed like a starfish over his bedspread, his sleep shirt riding up to reveal a tantalizing slice of muscle. Tony rearranges him, savoring every brush of skin, every slight pressure, until he’s tucked back into his bed and out of Tony’s sight.

Tony presses their cheeks together, his breath shaky. Even once a year is so much more than he’d ever thought he’d have again. His fingers, callused and worn, run through the curls in front of him, catching on the loose strands. He cups the nape of his neck and whispers a _thank you_ into the night.

\--

Peter is eighteen and his name is not in its usual place on the _Nice List._ Tony is shattered. He supposes the kid had to grow up eventually, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

He makes his way across the world, mourning the loss of what wasn’t until he sees the name _Peter Parker_ in the same quasi-handwritten script every name is written in and he is effervescent with joy. Peter has a new address. He hasn’t disappeared.

Tony recognizes this address, actually, down to the room number; this was his room, so long ago. Peter must have gotten into MIT with a pretty hefty scholarship, based on his old, worn situation back home.

As always, the first touch is electricity in his veins. It feels _more_ this year. The fear of having lost Peter, having lost his only source of contact was… it was intense. Tony doesn’t hesitate to climb into Peter’s bed, almost delirious, and curl up next to him. He throws his leg over Peter’s hips and draws him close, pressing his lips to every inch of bare skin he can reach.

He can feel Peter’s warmth from head to toe and it isn’t enough. He barks in laughter, eyes wide. As if it’ll ever be _enough_ to see him once a year, to feel this—he thought it would be, he thinks, running his hand down across Peter’s chest, feeling it rise and fall in a steady rhythm, the thrum of his heart an avalanche.

Once a year? No. He wants to drink Peter up, to open his own ribcage and pull him inside so his thundering heartbeat would power his own rather than the cursed blue light he’d constructed. At least then he’d never, ever be alone again.

Unthinking, Tony has hiked up Peter’s oversized shirt, his hands stroking everywhere they can touch and it’s _still_ not enough. He impatiently pulls Peter’s unresisting arms up and yanks the covering off, tossing it onto the pile of laundry across the room, peeling off his own overwarm undershirt as he does.

Tony’s chest dwarfs Peter’s as he lays fully atop him, wrapping his now-bare arms around Peter’s waist and neck and pulling him in for a kiss. Peter’s mouth falls open to Tony’s plundering, the student perfectly pliant for him, loose and relaxed.

He’s not sure how long he lays there pressed against Peter, mouthing at his collar and chest and always, always coming back to his perfect lips, pink and full and swollen. He knows he’s leaving marks; he’s not sure how Peter will explain that away but he knows that he will, but _he_ will know, _Tony_ will know that he exists outside of his workshop, at least for a little bit.

There’s still half a world to go, and Tony does eventually get back up, donning his undershirt and suit with great reluctance. He goes to drop his gift on the desk underneath the tiny Christmas tree, sad and bare as it is, and starts to move on.

Actually…

He heads to the corner of the bed, twisting and pushing just so to open a secret compartment he’d installed during his time here. He’s not sure if he’s disappointed or pleased that his cache is gone until he sees a certain wrist guard he recalls seeing in Peter’s old room. A grin tugs at his lips as he turns to Peter, dead asleep. Cute _and_ clever.

He retrieves his gift from under the tree and leaves it in the compartment, a smirk of satisfaction growing as he does. He lets out a very manly giggle at the thought of Peter’s nose screwing up in confusion, and wishes he knew the color of his eyes.

He does not notice the small, red light of a camera in the corner.

\--

Since last year’s scare, he’d focused himself entirely into his work in an effort to avoid thinking about the possibility that Peter wouldn’t make it onto the _List_ this year, that he’d be scrubbed from his memory.

It does not work.

He wonders if Peter is growing taller still, or whether he’ll stay petite, his waist fitting Tony’s hands perfectly. In Tony’s bed, in his bath, in his workshop, he brings himself off to the thought of Peter dreaming peacefully, relaxed and content and _Nice_ and all for him.

Maybe he’ll be shirtless to start this time, Tony thinks, teasing himself, and he’ll spend hours just running his hands across him, grinding leisurely against his bare hip, drinking him in like a good scotch, heady and honeyed and warm.

He grips his cock more firmly. Maybe he’ll be there underneath his comforter, cozy and adorable, and Tony will slide in there with him, ducking his head into the warmth below to taste Peter’s soft skin, to slide his hand between strong thighs and lick up the mess Peter will leave.

Will he go through a rebellious phase, and get a tattoo or a piercing? Tony can’t imagine it, but he can’t wait to find out.

He’ll stay _Nice_ , of course. He has to. He _has_ to.

Tony rides the high of his orgasm, and thunks his head onto a desk. He knows these interludes are just extending the year, but he can’t help himself.

He picks up a soldering iron and continues his work.

\--

Peter is nineteen this year and still on the _Nice List_ , and Tony is pathetically grateful.

For the first time since he became Santa, Tony takes the _List_ out of order, heedless of what that might mean for him, for the children. He’s supposed to follow it from east to west, following the sun, and he’s never had reason to deviate from that in the past.

Now, there’s only one person he can think about, that he _cares_ to think about.

The window slams open with more force than is necessary, leaving a small crack in the sill, but Tony only has eyes for Peter.

 _Peter_.

He’s in his bed, crouched in the corner along the walls where he has a view of both the door and the window. It looks like he’d done his utmost to stay awake, his arm marked with pink irritation where he’d pinched himself, his phone lying next to him, glowing in the dark. A smirk pulls at Tony’s lips. No creature, large or small, can overcome the magic of the _List_ , not anyone other than a Claus, at least. It’d be hard to complete the night’s deliveries asleep, after all.

Peter. Beautiful, perfect Peter curled up. He’s shirtless this time, just like Tony imagined. Perhaps he remembers some bit of last year, Tony thinks. What he actually did and what he’s fantasized has blurred together over time, but he remembers leaving a few love-bites, and is inexplicably annoyed when he realizes they’re gone, only to be replaced by others’.

There are other peoples’ marks on Peter.

It’s been a year, he reminds himself. It’s irrational to think his would still be there, irrational to think Peter, who doesn’t, who _can’t_ know him would keep himself only for Tony, but that doesn’t help his sudden jealousy. How dare they? Don’t they know Peter is _his_?

He snarls and stalks up to the edge of the mattress, dropping the gifts (he’d made extra, this year) to the floor, stepping out of his suit and shedding his under-suit as he goes. They can go rot, this is more important, _Peter_ is more important. Peter’s head is leaning against one of the walls, a soft snore emerging from the probably-uncomfortable student.

Tony’s hand slowly reaches out towards his bare chest to just barely touch a small bruise, pressing into it, seeing the color fade only to rush back in when he removes the pressure. The touch burns him as it always does at first, but now it burns for another reason as well. “Who did this to you? How dare…” His face twists into an ugly grimace. No, this won’t do.

Cradling the nape Peter’s neck, he uses his other hand to take one of his knees and _pull_ , dropping him down atop the blankets, knees spread. Tony slips his thigh between those splayed legs, kneeling above Peter, admiring his lovely chest, marred as it is by those intruding marks. His pink nipples harden as the cold air outside drifts in.

Tony’s inelegant yank has pulled down on Peter’s soft flannel pajama pants a little as well, revealing the tantalizing dip of his hipbone. He lets his free hand drift down the downy chest before him to rest there, stroking and pressing hard into the skin around it with relish, dipping just under the waistband once, twice.

Tony takes a moment to feel the texture of the fabric, cheap and pilling but well-loved, before trailing his hand down Peter’s clothed thigh and feeling the warmth, the musculature underneath. He can’t wait to feel that against him.

Higher up, his fingers tangle in Peter’s curls, his grip tightening to support his head as he tilts Peter’s face up towards him and swoops in for a kiss, teeth clacking, sucking and biting at his soft lips, so pliant and sweet. “ _Mine,_ ” he growls. He wants to see those lips swollen and bruised, he wants to hear Peter’s breath hitch in pants and moans.

His hips jerk at the thought, dragging him along one of Peter’s thighs, and _oh_ , that friction, that _touch_ —how can he be so perfect without even trying? He ruts against Peter’s leg for a few moments, basking in the sensations. He will _never_ get enough of this.

Peter’s chest may be marked already, but Tony is hardly going to let that stand. He slides lower, grinding against Peter as he does, mouthing along his jawline, sucking hard along the curve of his throat, in the hollow of his collarbone. He leaves a pattern of unmistakable marks and bites with a satisfied curve of his lips, skin already coloring so beautifully for him. “Someone else wants to take you from me?” Tony bares his teeth and bites down harshly on a nipple, a fever in his eyes. Let them _try_.

He’s already hard just thinking about everything he wants to do, and his movements seem to have aroused the young man beneath him too, if the slowly growing length against his stomach is any indication. Good. He strokes it as best he can through the material of Peter’s cheap pants, but soon grows impatient, reaching into his briefs to grasp at Peter’s little—or not-so-little, as the case may be—cock.

He can already tell it’s going to be gorgeous, just like the rest of him; he never expected differently. Uncut, smaller than his own, but it’s growing yet, slightly curved to one side. It feels like satin against his rough palm, the skin here thinner, more delicate. Tony savors the change, drunk or high already off of Peter. He’d taken some heady stuff in his youth, but his memories have nothing on this.

Stopping neither his ministrations nor his gentle grinding, he lets the hand on Peter’s neck make its way down his neck, across his shoulder, down his arm, never breaking contact. He reaches Peter’s hand, interlacing their hands for just a moment in remembrance. He brings Peter’s up to kiss, following his arm back up with his lips, leaving a trail of teeth marks and reddening flesh as he goes with satisfaction, and breathes in what Tony is now starting to associate with _Peter_.

“Oh, _Peter…_ ”

A sigh leaves Peter’s swollen lips and his hips roll the smallest amount. Tony gasps, his eyes alight with pleasure. “Oh Pete,” he licks his lips, “I’ll make you dream of me.” He crawls down Peter’s torso once more, this time with a mission, dragging his pants and briefs down together and tossing them off the bed. “You won’t remember who you’re dreaming of but you’ll dream of me and only me until next year, and then I’ll do it again then, and every year until you know who I am in your damned _soul_.”

Tony is now entirely between Peter’s bare legs, head-to-head with his respectable cock, just as perfect as he expected. He takes the opportunity of his position to turn slightly and leave yet more bruises on the inside of those milky thighs, biting and sucking his way up and down as if his life depends on it. Their weight as he shifts them over his shoulders is… it’s heavenly.

It may have been a long (long, _long_ ) time since he’s had the opportunity to suck someone’s dick, but his playboy title was well-earned before he was tricked into this life. He’d never left a partner wanting, even those he didn’t particularly care for.

And _Peter_ he cares for _very_ deeply.

He grasps Peter’s cock and gives it a few strokes, pulling another sigh from the man. “Don’t worry, Pete,” he says, gleeful. “I’ve barely gotten started.”

It’s not long before Tony is two fingers deep into Peter’s nearly spherical ass, lube pulled from his suit, and hollowing out his cheeks as he bobs his head, his throat relaxed, swallowing him down every time. Peter’s hips are rolling unsteadily, a whine pulled from his throat as Tony strokes at just the right angle inside him to hit his sensitive prostate.

When he starts to shift more aggressively, Tony pulls back, suckling on just the head of Peter’s cock, mouthing at the skin along the sides and making Peter whimper with want. Tony’s eyes shut in pleasure at the sound. He wants to hear that every goddamn day of his life.

Mercifully, Tony doesn’t draw it out too long; Peter isn’t able to beg, after all, no matter how pretty that would be. He goes down and stays there, moaning and swallowing several times in succession and drinking up every drop of Peter, thirsty for more, more touch, more Peter. The groan of pure pleasure that erupts is music to Tony’s ears, smooth and guttural and raw; the rhythmic undulations of his ass around Tony’s fingers have him rocking his own hips against the bedspread.

_More._

Still two fingers deep in Peter and stroking him through his orgasm, Tony is helpless but to continue. He hadn’t planned on going too far with Peter, not yet, but he is a greedy man. He’s never been satisfied in his life. He can always be better, do better, have more, and Peter is _his_.

He licks the few errant drops of Peter’s come that escaped from his lips, not letting up on Peter’s prostate for a moment. The sweat and slight crease between his brows let Tony know he’s overstimulating him a bit, but he doesn’t care. If Peter were going to wake up, surely he would have by now, and he needs Peter to feel this in the morning, needs him to be unable to even walk to his _partner_. Tony’s lip curls at the thought, his next thrust a bit harsher than he’d intended.

“Is this what you wanted, Peter,” he croons, “for me to be _jealous_?” Fingers curl harshly, digging into Peter’s prostate without mercy, pain starting to overwhelm the post-orgasmic high.

Peter’s body jerks, shifting around, clearly trying to wake up but unable to overcome the magic of the _List_. Something clatters to the floor. Tony pauses, but doesn’t withdraw. His free hand reaches gently up to Peter’s face, sweeping his curls out of his face and cupping his cheek.

“Oh, Peter,” he murmurs, still continuing his stimulation but more gently this time, pressing rather than rubbing. “Peter, Peter, Peter, you can’t be doing this to me.” Tony moving to tighten his free hand around one of the interloper’s bite marks. Peter flinches back from the pressure, squirming in discomfort from the almost-pain both outside and in even as Tony shudders in pleasure.

Reluctantly, he pulls back on both sides, the pads of his fingers lingering wistfully at Peter’s rim, massaging gently. His other hand strokes gently over his bruises. “I don’t want to _hurt_ you Peter, I don’t, just—seeing you claimed like this by some—" he grits his teeth, letting out a breath.

“No, it’s not your fault, I know that—you’re so beautiful and pure and _Nice_ , I can’t have been the only one to notice you,” Tony coos, lifting himself up just a bit, just enough to cradle Peter’s face with both hands this time, smoothing the crease between his brows with a rough thumb. Peter’s skin is so soft and smooth, the barest hint of stubble texturing his chin, his cheekbones clear and strong. “Perfect Peter…” he hums.

A deep breath calms him, a reminder that he’s the one here right now. Now that Tony is hovering above Peter, he can see him start to shiver from the chill of winter air, and that won’t do at all. In apology, he pulls himself back up Peter’s delicious body, letting his lips drag along until he’s just about even with him, and curls his arms around the younger man’s shoulders. He pulls the younger man’s back against his chest, and savors the feeling of skin against skin just as much as the first time.

A quick stroke of his hands through Peter’s sinful hair clears the way for Tony to lavish yet more kisses along his neck, softly this time, savoring each one. He’s made his marks, and Peter doesn’t deserve his ire, it’s that _intruder—_ but no. Tony keeps himself calm, stroking along Peter’s narrow waist, along his chest, almost massaging. Murmurs of apology, gentle nothings drip into his ear like so much sweet poison.

The softness of his touch and speech lets Peter slowly sink back into his sheets, calm, quiet, peaceful. Tony can feel him relax under his palms and grins into his back. Soft and clean and _his Peter_.

All he cares to feel is the heat between them, even as sweat begins to build where they touch.

Tony pulls Peter against him even harder, breathing in ink and metal, the scent so familiar yet so different from his own. He loves it. He loves the smell, he loves the heat, he loves the pressure against his cock where they press together.

That last one is growing more and more urgent as he rolls his hips up against Peter’s ass, fitting snugly against his pert cheeks. _Fuck,_ he wants him, wants to feel him everywhere. He shudders, Peter still breathing deep and even.

Tony wants to hear him moaning with pleasure, but wants his own pleasure more, pushing harder and faster, his breath beginning to come in pants.

He reaches over to where he’d discarded the lube from earlier and slicks himself up. A moan leaves his throat, but even he doesn’t know whether it’s from pleasure or dismay at having to separate himself from Peter for even a moment. It’s so cold, and he doesn’t waste a second pressing back up against the sleeping man, the heat of his legs swiftly warming his cock against them.

Tony can’t stand it, nor does he have to, and pushes himself between Peter’s strong thighs. A groan of satisfaction at being enveloped by Peter erupts, however gently, only to be outshone when he presses down on the top leg and thrusts between them. “Oh fuck, Pete, you—" the next motion shifts Peter forward a little along the sheets, and Tony quickly maneuvers so his leg is crushing Peter’s thighs together, leaving his hands to grasp at Peter’s hips to keep him in place.

The feeling of skin-on-skin, from his forehead at the nape of Peter’s neck to his legs curled about the other’s to his cock that’s only felt his own coarse grip for forty years, is at this point less a lightning strike and more acid burning its way through him, dissolving the boundary between the two of them, friction-welding them together like so much machinery.

All logic leaves him as he moves with abandon, pistoning between two muscular limbs, pawing at everything he can reach almost desperately. A litany of “ _Peter_ ” slips out, a prayer to a god he’s never believed in.

His dick grazes the underside of Peter’s with each stroke, which reluctantly hardens once more with the rhythmic brushes. Tony has just enough wherewithal to remember how he wants Peter to enjoy this too. He reaches around to grasp at Peter’s cock, stroking him in time to his own thrusts. The many threads of innovation and blueprints and _new-better-more-efficient_ usually crowding his mind are brushed to the side in favor of Peter’s pleasure and his own.

When Peter starts to let out those intoxicating sighs once more, Tony is so, so close. He reaches the hand not massaging Peter’s length up to caress his throat just to feel the delicious vibrations, laving kisses and bites everywhere he can reach. Both hands’ grips tighten and Tony can feel himself begin to shake apart.

He closes Peter’s legs just that bit more tightly, thrusts just that bit more powerfully, breathes him in more deeply, and Tony comes, “ _Yes_ ,” splashing a line of white over Peter’s wrinkled bedspread.

Though his rhythm might falter when he comes, his grip never does. Whispers of encouragement drape themselves across Peter until the swipe of his thumb over Peter’s oversensitive head and an instinctive roll of his hips brings Peter over the top again as well, his low moan thick and visceral.

The tension bleeds out of them both, breaths deepening, limbs loosening, and Tony doesn’t think he’s ever been this content. He doesn’t know how long he lays there curled against Peter’s back, dozing; time doesn’t move quite right at the best of times, for him.

Tony still doesn’t know what coming here first will do to, well, everything, and he doesn’t much care. He lets himself fade in and out, sleep unable to come for him fully until the night is over. The feeling of Peter between his arms, under his leg, around his now-softened cock is so perfect he never wants to move.

He holds him close, tightening his grip until he thinks he might add yet more bruises to the latticework across Peter’s smooth flesh, memorizing how it feels as best he can. It’ll have to last him until next year.

Peeling himself away from Peter’s sleeping form is almost physically painful, and yet it must be done. There are gifts to deliver to the children of the world, and the longer he waits, the worse it will be at the end.

Tony grimaces at the thought of the bone-deep exhaustion waiting for him at the end of the night and manages to pull himself away to the edge of the mattress with a sigh. Knowing it’ll be a year means he can prepare himself, but actually making himself leave is much more difficult this time.

He reaches out one more time, gently stroking Peter’s cheek indulgently, memorizing every feature, every eyelash, the flush of cold on his ears, the texture of his eyebrows.

“Oh, Peter, I wish I could stay and lie with you forever,” he comments, wistful, as he begins to dress. “But I have to leave for now. I’ll see you next year, my perfect, beautiful Peter.” He presses a chaste kiss to Peter’s forehead. The last bit of his suit _clicks_ into place and he drops Peter’s gifts in the hidden compartment once more, crushing a small note that went unread.

Now he has no more delays, no more excuses, and he really does need to go.

One last glance backwards shows Peter, relaxed for now, his cute snore filling the room.

“Wait for me, Peter,” he impassions, plaintive, “I’ll see you next year. And please… be _Nice_.”

He makes sure to shut the window on the way out.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like, come join us on the MCU thirst [Discord server](https://discord.gg/6wFsB2f) that hosted this event! ❤️


End file.
